"Every man's life is a fairy tale written by God's fingers."
Hans Christian Andersen

Sunday, March 09, 2014

I Always Loved Him

Dad, second from left at top

My father, who died only two weeks ago,
was an enigma to me. I always loved him, and he represented a good
human being and my parent, but he was mysterious and indecipherable
almost from beginning to end. He had a fabulous life as an activist
for social justice, reaching into the highest echelons of government
and philanthropy, working behind the scenes to bring about better
conditions for disadvantaged and oppressed people. A consummate
strategist, his ideas were not about giving handouts, but rather
bringing about social change so people could rise out of poverty and
become contributing members of society. (See New York Times article.)

Richard Boone's trajectory from the
time he finished study at the University of Chicago was that of social work, and he
immediately rose to leadership in any work he found himself. For most
of his life, he was at the top of his field—always the executive director.

For a man who worked so hard, he also
had five children and a wife. I am the oldest son, and all the other
siblings followed within eight years. Our circumstances were poor to
begin, but improved to stable middle-class and upper middle-class. My
father was never about getting rich—it was not in his perspective.
He was a devoted father, but not the ideal family man. His work took
precedence. I do have fond memories, especially the days we lived in Washington DC—of vacations, wrestling matches
with him on the living room floor, and visits with him on weekends in
his bedroom, where he sat me down and asked about how my life was
going, lending all his attention to me for a wonderful hour. He also
informed my life with the fascinating people he brought home. People
of all races who he championed and chose as allies—people who would
never have appeared in the homes adjacent to us. One summer, when I
was a youngster and our family lived on Long Island, we welcomed into our home two inner city kids, brother and
sister, from a gang riddled neighborhood in Spanish Harlem, New York
City. I do not know how my father found them. They spent the summer
as part of our family.
The boy told me about the zip guns his friends made to shoot, and I
was very impressed. I don't know how my mother handled seven kids
then . . . my father was always surprising her and sometimes she
complained loudly.

My father's folder he kept for me . . .

Dad was mysterious to me in that he did
not share his inner feelings and was impassive. He studied and
thought, and could be incredibly attentive, but also inaccessible. He
never said, “I love you.” Yet, I knew he did in a deep way.
I never saw his body after he died, but
arrived to the family home a couple days after he was taken away.
Nothing much remained, since he was not a great collector of things
and mementos. But he had folders for all his children, and I found
letters and correspondence between him and I that he had kept.

I also found some hand-written notes he had made and
considered important enough to stash away. Since he had no religion,
he developed his own philosophy and reason for living. His notes
indicate his primary beliefs were in:

The energy of love

Recognition of the world being
bigger than “self.”

Live life so as to hurt others as
little as possible.

Know that the individual is not
the center of everything.

The imperative to build
something of enduring value.

The dynamic process of becoming.

“Truth” can be found at any
level; physical, emotional, rational, and spiritual.

I am feeling tides of emotion in the
aftermath of father's passing. Death is final and draws a close to
life.